


Please Please Please Me

by ceywoozle



Series: The Great Sherlock RP Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the Smut, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Gags, M/M, PWP, Toys, Unrealistic Sex, and i don't care, and yes i know this isn't possible, because i am very much aware of that, because smut, i'm almost embarrassed to have written this, mild restraint, omg i can't believe i wrote this, omg the smut, please don't send me comments telling me this isn't possible, so much fucking porn, totally consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a cockslut. Plot, what plot?</p><p>This is a companion piece to this one written by my Sherlock (aka UpYourStreet). It is the same fic but from Sherlock's POV and it sweet and hot and omg just read it: http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thegreatsherlockrpgame/works/1865802</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Please Please Me

He is sweating and broken on the bed, face pressed into the mattress. He is wet. From sweat, from lube, from come—dripping from his hole, sliding down the cracks of his thighs—from the precome dripping slowly into the sheets, from tears of desperation and frustration, from the spittle slick on his face, leaking from the sides of the ball gag.

He can hardly move, his arse thrust into the air, the spreader bar forcing his legs apart, his wrists tied at the small of his back. There is nothing but pressure, nothing but sensation. He suckles at the gag in his mouth, the hard plastic nothing like what he's seeking, what he's desperate for—flesh, hard and hot. The cock ring is a painful, desperate pressure at his groin. He feels like he's been like this for hours, for days. He is cramped and full and desperate for release, but the gag makes it impossible to beg, impossible to do anything but moan and suckle and whine, and the hard silicone of the dildo in his arse, pumping slowly in and out of his stretched and reddened hole is the only thing he can think about at all.

“John. My John. You're so beautiful like this.”

Sherlock's voice is a low drone, a purr that vibrates along every nerve like a physical touch. He feels a shiver run along him and his muscles clench involuntarily on the dildo that is pushed deep inside him. He hears Sherlock's breath of laughter, feels the feather-light touch of his lips on his backside as the dildo stops moving.

John whines again, louder, his hips thrusting backwards, begging for movement in the only way he can. He strains against the soft material of the scarf that is binding his wrists. He wants to be fucked. He is full right now, the dildo larger than the last one Sherlock had used, but still not quite as large as Sherlock's cock. He wants Sherlock in him again but he knows it's too soon, the come from the last time still dripping down his thighs.

Sherlock has come in him three times already today and each time, as soon as he's pulled out, his come spilling into John, pumping him full and wet and hot, he's pulled out only to replace his softening cock with a dildo, each one slightly larger than the last. He hasn't let John come once.

The second time he had come in John, he had slide the dildo deep inside of him and left him there, vanishing for minutes before returning with his laptop and his phone. He had spent twenty minutes taking pictures, typing notes into a spreadsheet, observing the colour and the hardness of John's cock, the amount of precum accumulated on the bedsheet and dripping from its tip. He asked John about the intensity, the pain, instructing him to nod or shake his head in response.

All the while John had writhed and squirmed on the bed, his hips pumping utterly beyond his ability to control them, his arse filled but not quite full enough, clenching around the toy unmoving, begging through increasingly louder moans to be fucked.

Even now, this dildo, though slightly larger than the last, is not enough. John wants more. He wants to be filled. He wants to strain and ache and feel as if there is nothing left of him but his hole stretched beyond bearing until he is completely stuffed and writhing, sobbing and wanting and unable to bear it any longer. He needs to come more than he's needed anything in his entire life but Sherlock is still sitting there, his hands smoothing down John's involuntarily thrusting arse, pulling the cheeks apart and even with the dildo buried deep inside him John feels exposed, his hole fluttering, his muscles clenching.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums and he is so close that John feels his exhale on the exposed skin around his hole, where the flared base of the dildo is pushed inside him. “It looks like you need a bigger size.”

John nods frantically, his whole body convulsing with the violence of the movement, whimpering and moaning around the gag. He wants this. He wants this. Oh God, he needs this and when he feels Sherlock's fingers grasp the base of the dildo and pull it out, the sound he makes he doesn't even recognise as coming from himself.

The sudden emptiness is almost painful in it intensity. He is pushing his hips back against nothing and instinctively he tries to close his legs against it, protect his abruptly vulnerable hole, but the spreader bar is attached above his knees and it holds him open, his thigh parted uncompromisingly on the empty air inside him.

There are tears on his face, almost indistinguishable from the sweat and the spittle. Sherlock has moved off the bed and John doesn't know where he's gone. He's so empty, the feeling of the lube, of Sherlock's come sliding from his hole, down his thighs, soaking him, leaves him sobbing around the gag and even as he thinks he can't take any more, even as he begins to squirm downwards, trying to lower himself to the bed, seeking some kind of friction in spite of the cock ring clamped tight around him, Sherlock suddenly reappears, a single cool hand on John's fevered skin, the faint brush of lips.

“Hush. Love. I'm here. You're safe. Just suck, John. Are you sucking? I told you to keep sucking on the gag. I need you to suck and pretend that it's me. Pretend that it's my cock in your mouth, that I'm fucking you from both ends. We'll do that one day, when I'm sure you won't bite when I make you come. There's a thing called fucking machine. I saw it on the internet today. I'm going to get it. I'm going to strap you into it, let it fuck you while I fill your face from the other end. You can pretend that it's me on both ends. Maybe I'll leave you in it when I'm feeling bored. When I need to go to the lab, strap you in and leave you there, helpless and tied, being fucked all day. I'll make sure it's a large dildo. Bigger than the last one. Bigger than my cock. Bigger than this one even that I'm going to fuck you with right now. You'll be full all day, ready for me, and when I get home I'll leave you strapped in there and fuck you myself, fill you with my come then plug you with it. Then every time I need you I'll unplug you and fuck you again until you're filled with my come, until you can feel it sloshing around inside you, until you can't take anymore and you're begging me to let it out. How would you like that, my John? Tell me if you think you'd like that.”

He is frantic with need, squirming and whimpering. He would be begging if he could but he can't so he sucks instead, furiously suckling at the gag in his mouth and wishing again that it was flesh, that it was Sherlock inside of him on both ends. His hips are gyrating wildly in the air and he is whining desperately. He is still empty and he needs to be filled. He begs in the only way he can, pushing himself back against Sherlock's hand, his hips wiggling obscenely. His hole is gaping into the air and he knows Sherlock can't be missing this, he can't have forgotten.

Sherlock's voice comes again, shivering over John's skin and he automatically clenches, his hole seeking its promised fulfilment. And in the next moment he knows he's not forgotten, that Sherlock would never do that to him. “Okay, my love,” Sherlock says and his voice is soft and warm and filled with love, with wonder. “John, hold still. Love, hold still, I've got you. I want to fill you, okay, but you need to hold still.”

He can't. He wants to but he can't stop himself, can't stop the way he is shaking, the way his hips are stuttering against his will. He is so desperate, he is so needy. He's not in control and finally it takes Sherlock's hand on the small of his back, a solid pressure on his spine, before he is able to calm himself enough for him to hear the snap of the lube cap and every sense is suddenly tingling with anticipation.

“This one is big. It's not too big, though. I know you can handle more than you think. I know how much you need to be filled. You're going to be so filled, my John. It's going to feel incredible for you, but you're going to have to relax. Stop clenching like that.” It's said playfully and John feels the intrusion of a finger, sliding pointedly into him, and even that small pressure is like bliss to him and he moans loudly against the gag, sucking furiously at the silicone.

Sherlock chuckles behind him. “You're so stretched. I'm surprised you can even feel my finger in you anymore. You're hole is so big, so red. You've been fucked so much today, John. It's not over yet, though.” And saying so John feels the press of something hard against his hole and he feels a flicker of something half way between anticipation and panic because it is large. It is far larger than anything he expected, and involuntarily he cringes away from the intrusion but Sherlock's other hand reaches around and grabs his cock in a loose grip.

“Hold still, my John. You can take this. You can take so much more than you think,” and with those words he begins to push.

It is enormous. It feels like it is splitting him in two, taking over his entire body. The pressure that Sherlock applies is slow but inexorable and before it is even halfway in John is sobbing around the gag, the tears soaking the sheets under his face. The hand on his cock is loose but pointed and it is the only thing that is keeping John still right now, because even around the intensity of the stretch, of the feeling of being torn apart, it is the most exquisite thing he's ever felt and he is aching to push into the intrusion, desperate to have it seated inside him, because Sherlock is right—Sherlock is always right. He can handle this.

“That's it,” Sherlock soothes, his hand stroking gently now at John's cock as the dildo pushes further inside until John swears he is nothing left but want and need. He can't think, he can barely breathe. He is begging again, his voice nothing more than a muffled moan around the gag but he can't help it. He wants this in him. He is full. He is so full. And then there is no more, it has gone as far as it can go and John feels the flared base flush against his arse and it is deeper inside him than he ever thought anything could reach.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock breathes and John hears him even above the sound of his own cries, his entire being attuned to this man, kneeling behind him now, one hand slowly stroking his cock, the other one where the dildo meets his body, light fingers brushing the divide between John's flesh and hard plastic as if it is something marvellous that he can't quite get over. “You are so beautiful like this, my love. So beautiful. One day I will fuck you with my own cock while this is still inside of you. One day you will be wide enough to take me with this, too, and you will feel me come inside you deeper than you've ever felt before. I will be so far a part of you, John. You will never be rid of me. You will always feel me inside of you. Now hold still, my love. I'm going to let go of your cock but you need to not move. I don't want to hurt you.”

John is whimpering and almost entirely overcome. He can't think. His mind is clouded with want, with the need to be fucked, but he's so tired, too, drained and utterly destroyed even as the need in his own cock is beginning to drive him almost mad and the pressure inside of him an incredible cacophony of want. All he wants is to be fucked, to be pried open by the toy lodged inside of him, deeper and wider than anything he thought he could ever take. He wants to be fucked with it until he comes, either from Sherlock's hand on him or without it. He doesn't need it anymore. He doesn't need the pressure on his cock to make him come. He didn't even know that was possible until Sherlock had done it, and then kept doing it over and over and over again.

“John?”

John realises Sherlock is waiting, looking for his signal and John gives two nods of his head, exhausted and barely able to move, but he does it, and as soon as he does he feels the shift as Sherlock grips the base of the plug and begins to pull it out again.

John is sobbing again, keening loudly around the gag as the enormous dildo drags slowly, slowly out of his body and then just as slowly back in, the sudden emptiness almost has intense as being filled once more. And then all slowness is at an end as Sherlock starts to fuck him in earnest and John is moaning into the gag, utterly unable to control himself as his hips start to jerk convulsively until Sherlock simply holds the toy still and it is John who is fucking himself on it, thrusting frantically backwards onto it as Sherlock keeps it steady in his grip.

His cock is throbbing, painful in its need to release. John needs to come. He can feel himself growing wild, senseless as he shoves himself once more onto the dildo in Sherlock's hands and he knows that he should stop, that he needs to calm down but he can't, he can't. He needs to come and the dildo feels so incredible inside of him, pulling him down the middle, stretching him almost past endurance but not quite. He wishes he could spread his legs further. He wishes Sherlock would let him sit up so he could put it upright on the bed and let it sink into him, his own weight forcing it to split him in two. He wonders when he'll be loose enough to fit more in, to have Sherlock in there with it, fucking him twice. He is keening into his gag and the pleas are coming fast and uncontrolled now and he doesn't know how long he can do this but he wants to do it forever. He doesn't think he can ever be empty again.

And just as the sobs start to wrack him again, just as he's sure he can't take it anymore, Sherlock's hand finds his back again, slowing him, calming him, pressing against he base of his spine in a silent command for stillness, and slowly, gradually, John obeys, shaking uncontrollably even as with a slow thrust Sherlock pushes the dildo into him one more time and leaves it there as he rises from the bed.

Sherlock unties the scarf first, working the knot loose with a patience that John can't even fathom at this moment. And when it's loose, Sherlock gently guides John's arms so that they are laying at his side, his hands planted beside his head on the mattress and the agony in his shoulders almost matches the agony of the unmoving toy buried inside of him. After that Sherlock unbuckles the spreader bar and as soon as it comes undone John lets his legs fall to each side, his instinct to expose himself, expose the vulnerable hole in his arse, still filled and still wanting, almost overpowering. After that it is the ball gag and as Sherlock pulls it out of his mouth, soaked with his drool, John almost unable to close his mouth, the clear keen of his whine escapes him and the first word he speaks, muzzy and slurred from his stiff jaw, is _“Please.”_

“Please what, my love?”

“Please. I want to come with you inside me. Fucking me. Please. Sherlock.” There are tears on his face and the words are a whimper. He sounds like a beaten dog but all he cares about is his cock, his hole, abused and full with a toy that is not Sherlock, that is not fucking him like he needs to be fucked right now.

“Oh, my love,” Sherlock says and his voice is soft and immeasurably tender. “I would never have guessed this about you.”

John says nothing, it would take too much energy and right now all of that is focused on his cock, on the pressure inside of him, on Sherlock moving back behind him and his cool hands lifting up his hips and then grasping once again the dildo.

“I'm going to fuck you, my John,” Sherlock says, and he pulls the toy out.

John cries out loud at the sensation, at the friction, and then as it slips completely out of him, he cries at the emptiness, too, but it isn't for long because almost immediately he can feel the familiar heat, the hardness of vulnerable flesh, pressing at his entrance and Sherlock's hands are there, spreading his cheeks back, his thumbs circling the abused red hole where his cock is pressed.

“Oh my God, John,” Sherlock moans and he sounds almost as broken as John feels in that moment. “John, my God, you're so beautiful. You're so red right now, so stretched. My come is still inside of you. Buried deep. I know exactly what kind of noise you'll make when I finally push into you, when I finally come inside you one more time and I feel your muscles around me as I let you come, too. Do you want to come, my love? My John. My beautiful John.”

“Sherlock. Please. Please.”

And it doesn't take any more than that. Sherlock pushes inside of him and John cries out because as much as the dildos fill him they are never the same, they will never be the same, and as Sherlock thrusts into him, sliding in and out of his hole, he reaches around John with his hands and all at once the cock ring falls away and John is coming with a shout that is torn from him, keening wildly as Sherlock still thrusts inside him, fucking him through until abruptly John can't take it any more, and almost as if he knows, as if he understands, Sherlock gives a cry and pushes into him one last time and John can feel him coming, filling him further, marking him completely, and when he's done, when they're both panting and silent and wrung dry, Sherlock pulls out, sliding sideways onto the bed beside John where he wraps his arms around him and drags him to his chest. And John is filthy and aching and broken but he is burrowing into the chest, pressing himself as close to that cool flesh as he can while Sherlock sighs in his ear.

He should get up. John knows that, that if he doesn't force himself to take a hot bath right now he will be too sore and stiff to move for days afterwards. But Sherlock's hand on his head is a caress, a sonnet of adoration, and John knows that he can trust him. Knows that he doesn't have to think any more, that Sherlock will always do what's best for him, so he let's himself go, fading with a sigh into his arms.

 


End file.
